Why Fairy Tales Never Come True
by lilkyonkyon
Summary: “He would never forget the smell of flowers.” George remembers the day he attended his first wake, and why ‘happily ever after’ is a fantasy after all. Rated for adult themes. Oneshot. ::First Memory Challenge:: ::Just Dialogue/Description Challenge::


I wrote this for the First Memory Challenge. For those of you who are curious, here is the **First Memory Challenge:** Everyone has their own first memory, whether it be good bad; broken or full. Write about a character's first memory in a one-shot.

I had to use one of eleven prompts; I chose **the prompt:** "He would never forget the smell of flowers." I took it from there.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Harry Potter series.

**Why Fairy Tales Never Come True**

He would never forget the smell of flowers. They had been spread out all around the room — the only flashes of colour among the drab costumes of his relatives. Minus the red hair, of course. There were only two people in that entire room that didn't boast the infamous Weasley hair, and they weren't really Weasleys by blood. George couldn't remember one of them, but the other was a thin-lipped man with a pointed, sad smile. Fred whispered that since he looked like a weasel, he must be part of the family, too.

It turned out he was: their great-uncle, whom they had never met before. They hadn't met their great-aunt, either, but mum had forced them to come to her funeral anyways. It was their first wake attended as a family, and George immediately disliked it. Everyone was so… sad. But the flowers, Merlin, there were so many! Light pinks, fiery oranges, deep blues, and even some that changed colours whenever someone came to sniff them. The smell was divine, even for a boy so young. He and Fred had paced before the casket, inhaling the scent of every flower within reaching distance. No one seemed to mind, since they were too busy hugging one another and crying.

It bothered George, of course. How could so many people be so sad with so much around them to smell, touch, explore? Fred, naturally, agreed with him, and George suddenly shot him a wicked smile and asked his brother if he wanted to play a game. Who could steal the most flowers without getting caught? A challenge, indeed. Fred immediately accepted.

They both scurried around, being as secretive as seven-year-old boys can be, plucking flowers when they felt no one was watching. George found a few yellowy-orange flowers labelled 'day lilies,' and a few deep blue flowers called 'my condolences.' As he went to hide his treasures, he paused before a particularly large bundle of little white flowers. They were bunched like tiny grapes, but the stalks stuck straight up and they gave off a sweet honey smell that made him grin. The card said 'lilacs.' George took fistfuls of the buds and shoved them into every pocket he could find on his dress robes before he scampered away, quick as a rabbit.

Before an hour had passed, Fred and George had amassed such a large pile of flowers, it was beginning to rival the collection at the front. They tried to tally the score but they lost count at around three hundred. They eventually determined it to be a tie.

And now they were back at square one, watching people dolefully greet each other, their voices almost whispers. It was so boring. At once, Fred's face lit up with his idea, and George read it perfectly, matching his smile in eagerness.

It took them almost no time at all—their great-uncle was so preoccupied with cleaning his glasses, he never noticed the hand that reached into his pocket and snatched his wand away. Fred and George dashed back to their wide collection of flowers and did their best to smash them all together. The lilacs took over the pile, covering it in a white perfection. One last time, the boys exchanged grins. This time, the winner would be the one who could catch the most flowers.

Fred shouted what sounded like gibberish and thrust the wand in the direction of the flowers.

The resulting explosion more than quadrupled the number of flowers, and the noise was louder than a thunderclap. Some of the ladies screamed, a few people even dropped to the floor in fear. Fred and George gave a pair of war cries and launched themselves into the fray, leaping about to catch the most.

For a moment, the only sound in the room was their playful shouts and taunts. Only after the shock wore off did everyone start to laugh. Some of the younger attendees even joined in the game themselves, scooping up handfuls from the floor and launching them in the air again to catch. The lilacs were snowing over the entire family, brightening their dress robes, their hair, their faces. And Fred and George were in the middle of it all, laughing together, snatching as many petals out of the air as they could. Even their mum couldn't really be mad. It was then the twins had decided to never stop laughing, to keep going through the good times and the bad with matching smiles on their faces.

But it's so hard now. George desperately needs that moment again. He has started to have dreams about it. All the time. The images are so real, too — the scent of flowers is pungent, almost enough for him to taste it, and Fred is there next to him, laughing hysterically, reaching his hands in the air to catch those white blossoms as they fall to the ground . . . . George always wakes up after those dreams with a huge grin on his face, ready to shake Fred awake and have another laugh, to face the world together just like before.

When he turn to the bed next to his, though, it's empty. He'd realize, quite abruptly, that the entire thing was just a dream. Fred is gone.

George sits a bit away from everyone else, watching his hands instead of the faces around him. Every so often, he receives a gentle pat on the back and a few words of comfort. A part of him wants to crack a small joke at the passers-by, but each word sticks in his chest, as if trying to fill the hole resting there. Absentmindedly, his hand reaches for his breast pocket, where a sprig of white lilacs rests above a medal of honour, awarded by the Minister of Magic to the members of the Order.

It was funny; before the war, he was convinced that he and Fred would become heroes in their own right. Famous for being more than the pranksters at Hogwarts, for more than the founders of Weasley Wizard Wheezes. Now they are. The matching medals on their robes is proof of that. But half of their legacy rests in a coffin.

When it comes time to pay his last respects, George walks by the casket bit by bit, lagging behind his older brothers. All of the same brilliant colours that had enchanted him as a child surrounds him now, yellows, oranges, blues, but he can hardly focus on them. Instead, he sees the mirror image of himself resting on his back, eyes closed serenely and a hint of a smile on his lips. George gently plucks the lilac sprig from his pocket and places it over his brother's chest. The white is such a contrast to the black dress robes. Blearily, George tries to summon a smile.

Fred and he had always imagined they'd make a name for themselves, and now they have — but not in the way either of them had wanted.

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